


Murder, Murder

by ThisCatastrophe



Series: Burnt Offerings [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Autoerotic Asphyxiation, BDSM themes, Blood and Gore, Guro, M/M, Masturbation, Painplay, Public Masturbation, Self-Harm, or semi-public rather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 18:27:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14219103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisCatastrophe/pseuds/ThisCatastrophe
Summary: Contrary to popular belief, Hidan has a little voice of reason. He just chooses to ignore it.For instance, now. That voice is telling him that Kakuzu would not appreciate the raid on the low dresser where he’s been keeping his clothes, and that he'd appreciate Hidan wearing those pilfered clothes even less. Forget the fact that he's getting blood and spit and probably any number of other fluids on them. The theft is enough of a punishable offense.





	Murder, Murder

**Author's Note:**

> It's some eroguro masturbation with everyone's favorite (?) immortals. None of the wounds inflicted are life-threatening, but they would be on a normal person, so if that upsets you, please don't read.  
> Other CWs for somewhat-glorified potential relationship violence and public masturbation with the object of affection nearby. I'm not sure what better way to notate those, honestly. Please let me know if I missed a warning.
> 
> Commissioned by shipcat. Thanks for being my first patron. <3

“Five percent to Pein.”

Hidan scowls. “You still haven’t told me what I’m getting, Kakuzu.” He twirls a chopstick between his fingertips and nearly drops it onto his plate.

“You’re getting nothing,” Kakuzu replies. “The five percent to Pein pays for the reconnaissance services rendered. Your compensation was the ritual you plan to perform on the target.”

He sips at a tiny teacup, dwarfed in his hand, and folds his free arm across his elbow. The motion upsets his open ledger ever-so-slightly, pushing it into the pile of curled-up bounty posters from various foreign lands. Across the room, the waiter and barmaid cower together just behind the counter, trying desperately to look as if they’re just scrutinizing a delivery invoice, leaving what has to be the new waitress to serve them half-spilled tea and shaken food. Evidently shinobi aren’t a common sight in this little hellhole country, and even less so rogues.

Inside this tiny hellhole country where shinobi are foreign and terrifying, there is a tiny hellhole inn with awful, bitter tea and greasy food and a manager who doesn’t ask too many questions of new arrivals, especially when word arrives in town that there’s a multinational bounty out on someone who looks exactly like last week’s dine-and-dash. And inside the tiny hellhole inn’s anteroom are three members of an underpaid waitstaff, two locals looking for an excuse to leave quickly and two men in black cloaks adorned with red clouds, both looking far too comfortable considering the tense atmosphere.

“I appreciate the, er,” Hidan racks his brain for the correct phrase, “... _monetary valuation_ of my religion, but I actually do need some cash, old man. Can’t very well fuckin’ eat good karma.”

“You know damn well that you don’t need money to eat.”

Hidan groans and knocks his knee against the bottom of the table, rattling Kakuzu’s teapot and upsetting some of their cutlery. “Come _on_. You can’t keep cutting me out of deals like this. If you don’t let me in on the cash, I’m going to let myself in, one way or another.” He frowns across the table and grips the unstained wood with one hand, bristling. The little waitress thinks twice about collecting their empty plates.

“I’m starting to believe you don’t have a voice of reason, the way you test me.” Kakuzu’s scowl is hidden behind his mask, but the dark look in his eyes speaks enough for the obscured face. “Watch yourself, child.” A long finger taps against the table; upon each impact, gaps in one of his stitches open up, revealing a writhing mass of black tendrils that emit a low static as they contact the air.

Hidan pauses for a moment, a lump growing in his throat. “Right. Well, fuck you too, old man.” He stands and tosses the chopstick back to the table, letting it bounce on his plate, and shoves a hand in his pocket. “I’m gonna go back to the room for a second. Say my prayers that I don’t ruin your day. See ya.”

With that, Hidan steps out of the inn’s anteroom and into their tiny shared bedroom, leaving Kakuzu alone with the trembling waitstaff.

* * *

 

Contrary to popular belief, Hidan has a little voice of reason. He just chooses to ignore it.

For instance, now. That voice is telling him that Kakuzu would not appreciate the raid on the low dresser where he’s been keeping his clothes, and that he'd appreciate Hidan wearing those pilfered clothes even less. Forget the fact that he's getting blood and spit and probably any number of other fluids on them. The theft is enough of a punishable offense.

 _Shut up and die already_ , Hidan tells the voice, and yanks Kakuzu’s shirt further up his belly, watching blood escape from exposed, rippling muscles. Every time his hand brushes the red blossom, his thighs shake and that incessant voice of reason is drowned out that much more.

 _No, really_ , it cries, desperate but tainted now with passion. _He's old enough to be your father. Your grandfather. He's old enough to have fucked your grandfather_.

 _Now you're talking_ , he replies to his own better judgement, and the voice finally fades into static.

Breaking through the red, a flash of silver: his retractable pike, slipping in and out of the skin of his belly, looks almost like an obscene piercing. He presses a quivering hand to the skin bridge, feeling the warming metal against the wrong side of his flesh, and sighs haltingly.

There are so many different kinds of pain, some of them merely irritating, some with delicious sub-skin lightening, some that bring a person closer to god. Others change a person forever.

He thinks the latter is what this kind of pain is.

He’s curled up awkwardly, almost haphazardly, on the bed of their rented room, one leg folded with the shinbone flush to the mattress, the other half extended, leaving the tenting front of Kakuzu’s stolen pants exposed, almost dangerously so. If anyone walks in, Hidan thinks, he’d be in a fix, unable to stand and hide himself quickly. And what a thrill, that danger. Especially since Kakuzu himself sits no more than twenty meters away, still posted at the low table in the foyer, likely going over his ledger and penning short letters to various bounty-offerers.

With a shudder, Hidan presses his face into Kakuzu’s shirt hem. His head spins with a papery scent, like the thousand forgotten histories in the back of Yugakure’s archival library, trailing into the sweet iron scent, not quite the same but not quite different from the iron taste in the back of his mouth. There’s a tiny hint of laundry soap, a moment of oak bark. All these little moments are Kakuzu. He buries his face further into the shirt and arches, tearing skin at the edges of existing puncture wounds.

He knows other Akatsuki teams are lovers. It’s almost an implicit rule: you partner up, you fall into bed. Maybe you’ll wind up soulmates, if there’s any such thing, and maybe you’ll just end up bedmates, but it feels like he’s part of the only team that isn’t constantly sneaking off for dates. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if Zetsu was with someone, even if it was just between his left and right side.

That’s part of what makes this recent bounty-hunting trip so hard—if he were Deidara travelling with Sasori, he’d be prepared for more than a couple of nights pressed down into the mattress. As Itachi, an equal exchange of moonlit walks and finely manicured nails clawing at a strong shoulder. Even Pein shows up from long trips with bite marks adorning his neck.

But with Kakuzu? Nothing. The best he can hope for is a show of violence, sweet bloody passion, that he can store away with every other sick masturbatory fantasy he’s ever had. Now, with the pike shifting unsteadily as his abdominal muscles shake, he rifles through those memories: Kakuzu, with someone else’s blood trickling down to the edge of his parted, panting lips, standing over a Sunan shinobi as he writhes in perfect pain; Kakuzu, in a rare unmasked moment, gritting his teeth until the stitches on his cheeks pull tight and the low moonlight glitters on his canines and Hidan can see just how much he’s hated; Kakuzu’s forearms, sinewy and lean, flexing as he grips a throat.

Hidan can't take it anymore, so he rips the overlong pants down around his knees until they catch on his folded leg and smooths a hand, saliva-slicked, over his painfully hard cock. The underclothes he stole are already pushed aside, had been since the start, and a damp spot marrs the front of Kakuzu’s best pair of pants. Hidan grins, knowing he has the option of washing the spot out and letting Kakuzu wear them like nothing happened or replacing them ruined and incurring a sexually-instigated thrashing. He's not sure which is better, so he rolls his hips, driving his dick into his clenched fist, and resolves to figure it out later.

A high and desperate keening noise escapes him, almost against his will, and he considers whether or not this development is a good thing. On one hand, if his noises summon Kakuzu from the inn’s foyer, he’ll be interrupted, and yes, he’ll be hurt, but there’s always a chance that Kakuzu will dismantle him and keep him from finishing what he crept away to start. Though he loves the idea of being interrupted in the act and denied his pleasure, Hidan knows himself too well—in the end, interruption would be torture, and not the kind he enjoys.

And the better option, he thinks: he quietly finishes, leaves Kakuzu’s clothes a stained, bloody mess, keeps his _fundoshi_ on for the rest of the day and returns to the anteroom to enjoy his afterglow near Kakuzu, who’d be none the wiser. Yes, he thinks, and arches just enough to rip the _fundoshi_ off. With a final sigh, Hidan fits the cloth between his teeth, head reeling.

He can hear rats in the walls and insects under the floorboards and they disgust him, and he disgusts himself on some level, with the wet noises of his violated skin and red-dusted cock mixing with the sounds of hidden vermin. Isn’t this wrong? Who cares, he thinks, who cares except the people who wind up dead, sacrificed. One more time: he imagines Kakuzu stealing a sacrificial lamb, a genin with bright eyes, splattering her ichor on every tree and giving him a searing look.

Hidan grabs the pike with one hand, though it’s a struggle to keep it steady while the other hand administers quick, shallow strokes to his dick. He gives a little tug; the metal slides out of his belly, hitching on organs in a way that makes him whine into Kakuzu’s _fundoshi_ , tears prickling at his eyes and precum leaking steadily onto his fingers. It’s becoming hard to hold on. Every motion feels like fire, and his head is spinning in a way that says he’ll either come or pass out very soon. If he passes out, maybe he’ll wake up in Kakuzu’s—well, not his arms, but at least his rough hands, and maybe there will be jet-black sinews involved, and maybe he’ll be able to finally pick up a scar, some kind of love token. But then, maybe he’ll just wake up on his own with a migraine and a flaccid dick and aching balls and stained sheets that he’ll have to pay for before they leave this no-name village.

He picks orgasm, of course, and twirls the pike with a practiced motion that even dizziness and lust can’t spoil. It lands safely in his palm, point aimed at his violated stomach, and he lets it drop, lets gravity do the work as he closes his eyes for a second to bask in the illusion that someone else made the attack. The tip slices into the ruined skin just under his ribcage, pierces his stomach and rests against his spine. Electricity sparks throughout his body and his legs suddenly feel leaden, numb; momentarily, he’s concerned if this will damage him permanently, but the tingling sensation travels through his pelvis and he forgets what he was worried about.

One last touch, the finishing piece, and his final, favorite memory, the one he always saves for last. Hidan reaches for his throat with the now-freed hand and, curling the fingertips in to prime his nails, grasps himself around the trachea. His thumb presses into the hollow under his chin and he feels the throb of his blood circulating, matches the pulse with the one rocking through his palm and in his leaking cock. His stomach clenches as if his hips should be thrusting up into his hand, but his legs are still numb and his eyes are shut tight so he can’t quite tell whether or not he’s arching until he feels the pike shift to press into some previously undisturbed skin, tearing it.

From the haze in his head, Kakuzu’s face materializes. He’s too close, his mask pushed down hastily, his headband missing. Hidan remembers a pressure against his throat and tries his best to match it point for point even knowing that Kakuzu’s hand is much larger than his. He resists the urge to add extra memories—it’s tempting to recall Kakuzu’s body pressed threateningly against him and to, at the same time, add a stiff, burning prod against his thigh when it was never there to begin with. The sharp teeth grit in anger, the deep hiss of Kakuzu’s unnatural tendrils rubbing against each other as they exit through stitches along his biceps, the low and harsh grumble of his voice as he explained just what might happen to Hidan’s body and where it might be found in several years: he adds each in turn until the image becomes as vivid as when it was a reality.

And as Hidan comes across his chest, ignoring the rope of semen that lands on his bitten lip and the one that burns on the torn skin of his belly, he prays to God for another encounter just the same.

 _Ah, Jashin_ , he thought months ago, alone, a rogue-nin, _you know I'm not the prayerful type, but if I've ever been your faithful servant, then please._

 _Send me a murderous man, Jashin, and make him hate me_. And lo, Jashin saw the carnage in this thought, and it was good, and he sent a villain on dark wings, gave him the unflinching stare that only comes from a thousand murders and the steadiness and fearlessness that only comes from weathering a thousand deaths. For gods know the true hearts of their believers, and they know their deepest desires, and Jashin knows Hidan’s every preference. A man sent from whatever blasphemous heaven Jashin lives in; Hidan can't ask for anything more.

* * *

 

Sometimes Kakuzu wonders if Hidan thinks he’s deaf.

He could point out the exact moment when Hidan’s hand wrapped around his dick (what else makes that noise, save certain forms of cooking that he knows Hidan doesn’t enjoy), and what was with those barely-concealed whimpers, nevermind the fully-realized moan before he shoved God-knows-what in his mouth?

Not that his partner’s little hobby isn’t interesting. It’s stroking Kakuzu’s ego, actually. It feels good to affect someone so deeply that they run off to masturbate after just one little hard look. Unfortunate for his clothes, which he assumes was the product of the dresser drawers opening and closing, as well as all that panting, but he supposes the power of the ryo here is good enough to pick up a new secondhand set without dipping too far into the bounty.

He waits patiently for Hidan to return, closing his ledger and polishing off the tea.

When he does return, he’s a mess. There’s a bandage wrapped around his abdomen, which wouldn’t be noticeable if Hidan normally wore a shirt. His hair is a mess and he walks like his legs are made of stone and there’s a glassy, satisfied look in his eyes. The scent of blood trails him. Kakuzu pretends not to notice.

“Where were we, old man?” Hidan prompts, dropping heavily into a wooden chair and leaning his elbows on the table. “My cut? Your cut? Pein’s cut? Who are we delivering the bounty to, anyway? Did you decide?”

“We’ve been through all those points already,” Kakuzu reminds him. “Your cut is zero. Pein’s cut is five percent and mine is the remaining ninety-five.” Before Hidan can interrupt, mouth dropping open with an offended pop, Kakuzu continues: “And I already explained why. Keep up. We’re delivering the bounty to the Country of Tea, so the trip will be quite a bit longer than projected.”

Hidan sighs and melts further into the table. “Old man, if I have to spend one more night on a rented bed, I’m going to become a missing-missing-nin.”

But Kakuzu can see a tiny glimmer in his half-closed eyes, and he resolves to buy two new sets of clothes. Maybe something with a closer fit than what he’s used to.


End file.
